Quotes About Pain

It's no way to live, in fear of living in case of pain

That hurt querida, that really hurt

I'll never walk again, will I? I asked, looking woefully down at my ravaged feet. You will, Jesse said. Just not for a day or two. Those burns look very painful. They'll need butter. Butter? I wrinkled my nose. The best treatment for burns like those is butter, Jesse said. Uh, I said. Maybe back in 1850. Now we tend to rely on the healing power of Neosporin. There's a tube of it in my medicine cabinet behind you.

Running cured almost anything. It eased pain; it exhilarated; it served as penance and validation. It turned lone wolf into a compliment. Running was objective – the stop-watch never lied. Races judged competitors on how long and hard they could run fast, not on a coach's decision to play favorites with the starting lineup. Running was pure.

The chill of the rain disappeared. The rain itself seemed to evaporate. The fatigue vanished. The night. Everything distilled to the brilliant pulsing bead of glass pain she herself had given rise to. She felt exhilaration and relief. She felt soothed and punished. She felt control.

Grief wasn't a feeling. It was a thing that visited. It was a weight, a lead wall, and it pressed on her lungs and settled a shadow across her mind, until the only way she could inhale was through a gasp of anger.

The facts of his existence are plain. I know that he will never silence those unspeakable voices. He heard how people killed, and how they died and their voices infected him, coursed through his body, poisoned him. He didn't know how to turn off the noise, or turn the hate back out onto the world like the rest of us. He turned it on himself. You could see that from the scars on him.

Dying would have been so much easier.

He should have said something, why hadn't he? Costis wondered. In fact, the king had. He had complained at every step all the way across the palace, and they'd ignored it. If he'd been stoic and denied the pain, the entire palace would have been in a panic already, Eddisian soldiers on the move. He'd meant to deceive them, and he'd succeeded. It made Costis wonder for the first time just how much the stoic man really wants to hide when he unsuccessfully pretends not to be in pain.

Please, he whispered. His voice was low but clear. Don't hurt me anymore. Attolia recoiled. Once, as a child, she'd thrown her slipper in a rage and had knocked an amphora of oil from its pedestal. The amphora had been a favorite of hers. It had smashed, and the scent of the hair oil inside had lingered for days. She remembered the scent still, though she didn't know what in the stinking cell had brought it to mind.

It made Costis wonder for the first time just how much the stoic man really wants to hide when he unsuccessfully pretends not to be in pain.

Just asleep, Eddis reassured her. At the sound of her voice Eugenides's head turned slightly, but he didn't wake. Attolia, seeing the movement, breathed again and pressed her hand to her chest where it hurt.

Oh, Lady, said the woodcutter, my hurt is overwhelming because it is someone else's pain that makes me cry.

I woke with a terrible headache and wobbled around 'till I fell out the window. You what? Fell out the window. That one over there. She [Edwina] gestured to the curtain behind her. I broke my back. My spine is all wobbly now, but it doesn't hurt.

Only through pain can you be sure of the truth

If only wars could be won on the strength of the cheering when they begin, instead of the blood and the pain and the horror that feed the gods of discord.

For my mother's entire life, her mother was less a mother than splintered bits of shrapnel she carried around in her body, sharp, rusty debris that threatened to puncture an organ if she turned a certain way.

And so it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman in possession of vague symptoms like fatigue and pain will be in search of a doctor who believes she is actually sick .

In the months that followed my mother's death, I managed to look like a normal person. I walked the street; I answered my phone; I brushed my teeth; most of the time. But I was not OK. I was in grief. Nothing seemed important. Daily tasks were exhausting. Dishes piled in the sink, knives crusted with strawberry jam. At one point I did not wash my hair for ten days. I felt that I had abruptly arrived at a terrible, insistent truth about the impermanence of everyday.

Only a few friends realized at the time how much physical suffering I was undergoing. We are bad at recognizing the suffering of others unless we are given clear-cut clues and evidence. And so invisible illnesses often go unacknowledged, while less serious conditions get attention.

To have pain is to have certainty; to hear about pain is to have doubt." The same was true of all my symptoms, none of which could be seen. In those months I was lonely in a way I never had been before. I could taste the solitude of the human body like brine in my mouth, a taste that never left me. •

He's losing weight, I say. He doesn't sleep anymore. It occurs to me that this is how cults weaken the will of initiates. Robert says, It sounds to me like he's in love, and adds that the world's most coveted state is characterized by unrelieved insecurity and almost constant pain.

I have acute pancreatitis. I thought it was just average looking.

sometimes, when the sun shines, it scorches.